


The Fire of Malice

by Zutara90



Series: The Witcher of Rivia [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 06:26:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11938224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zutara90/pseuds/Zutara90
Summary: Geralt needs to find Triss to be able to track down Ciri, only he isn't the only one looking for the sorceress. When the witch hunters get involved, Geralt and Triss must fight for each other. Fight for their lives.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author’s Note:** So I’ve been wanting to do something with Triss for a while now, but it took me forever to think of a suitable story for it. So I sort of went with a complete reimagining of how the whole Triss/Geralt questline went in The Witcher 3. There are some **SPOILERS** at the end of how the main game ends, so here’s your warning if you haven’t played it yet. Also, I’m going to be posting a chapter a week (usually on Mondays). As always, enjoy! :)

* * *

 

**Prologue**

“Sir, we have a lead.”

Roth turned from his desk toward the door, eager to hear the news. “What is it?”

“One of our informants in Oxenfurt told us that she met with a witcher. They didn’t know where she went, but the witcher has since left the city. He heads toward Novigrad.”

“Good. Gather the men, tell them we move tonight. And that we need him alive.”

The man nodded and left.

Finally, a break. It had been almost a month since his demotion. Years he had spent clawing his way up to the top only to come crashing down because of some stupid girl. How was he to explain that she had simply disappeared on Temple Isle? He was put on lowly patrol duty after that with a small retinue of men. He made quick work of recruiting more under the very noses of his superiors, paying for the large crew by staging raids and confiscating “suspicious goods” from merchants.

His superiors were fools. Religious zealots the lot of them. He had no problem hunting witches, but then, he simply liked to hunt. Witches were just a convenient outlet. And unlike the idiots in charge, he wasn’t opposed to using magic to his own benefit. He had learned a long time ago that magic was extremely useful. Whatever it took to get back on top, he would do it. And then he would show them all what he was really capable of. They wouldn’t know what hit them.

It all started with this witcher.

He would make quick work of him.

**Chapter One**

Oxenfurt loomed over the horizon as Geralt crested a low hill. Tapered turrets jutted past tiled rooftops, stone walls were bleached out by the blazing sun. Ribbons of smoke rose from a multitude of chimneys scattered across the city. In the river, boats milled lazily, occasionally hauling in a catch to the algae-covered docks. The bustling city thrived, unaware of Geralt’s plight, of greater forces at play.

He needed to find Triss. The sooner the better. He had already wasted so much time running into dead end after dead end in his quest to find Ciri. Now he had a useless phylactery that needed repairing. Hopefully Triss would know what to do, or at least someone who could help. Unfortunately, she had gone into hiding. The only reason Geralt knew she was in Oxenfurt was because the King of Beggars had told him so. Apparently he and Triss were acquaintances.

Geralt trudged across the bridge into Oxenfurt. Now that he was here, he wasn’t quite sure how he was going to flush her out. Knowing Triss, she probably had a constant ear out for anything suspicious in the city, lest she need to flee. Geralt could certainly make himself qualify.

He headed for the nearest tavern. It was a little after noon and he hadn’t eaten. Might as well kill two birds with one stone.

Along the way, Geralt made sure to stop as many people as possible, asking them if they knew of any witcher contracts in the area. Let the word spread far and wide.

A rundown tavern appeared just ahead of Geralt. It was as good a place as any. Having just ordered a midday meal and a mug of ale, Geralt sat himself at a table in the middle of the tavern. He drained the cup in one shot and immediately called for another. As time passed, he made a show of becoming more and more drunk, blathering on to the room at large about his many accomplishments. Hushed whispers met his ears, some in awe, some in disdain. He didn’t really care either way, as long as he made an impact.

The hours whiled away until the bartender finally plucked up the courage to kick Geralt out, saying he didn’t want any trouble. He seemed a little wary of Geralt though and his tone was more polite than it probably would have been with anyone else.

It didn’t matter. Geralt knew word would spread.

As he somewhat unsteadily strode down the cobblestones, a street urchin ran past him, snatching his coin purse and taking off in the opposite direction. “Hey!” Geralt called as he chased the boy.

Just his luck.

The kid turned down an alleyway, Geralt trailing behind. Every time he seemed to catch up, the boy would take an unexpected turn and pull ahead. Not to mention Geralt wasn’t exactly in any shape for running after his afternoon at the tap. Geralt felt like he had chased the boy across half the city by the time he finally caught up to him. The little urchin had run into a dead end. Not very smart for someone who lived on the streets. Cornered, the boy turned, a panicked look on his face.

“Just hand me the purse and I won’t give your hide the tanning it deserves,” Geralt reprimanded, reaching out his hand.

“Sorry, mister. I had to try.” Defeated, the boy tossed back Geralt’s coin and dashed past.

From the weight of the purse, Geralt knew some of the coin was missing. He swiveled around. “Wait!”

But the boy was gone.

Geralt grumbled as he stowed the pouch at his side.

“I hope you weren’t really going to hurt the boy, Geralt. He was only doing as he was told.” A woman with flaming hair stepped from the shadows, removing her hood.

“Triss. I should have known.”

“You could have been more subtle, you know. Half the city knows you’re here and I’m pretty sure most of the taverns will refuse you entry on sight.”

“Sorry, but I was in a hurry.”

“Why?”

“I’m looking for Ciri. And I need your help.”

Triss grew concerned. “Of course. What do you need?”

“I have a broken phylactery that belonged to Ciri. She left it behind when she disappeared from Novigrad. She was trying to get it fixed herself, but obviously failed. If I can repair it, it may help me find her.”  
Triss shook her head. “I’m sorry, Geralt, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t know how to fix something like that.”

Geralt was crestfallen at the words. He didn’t know where else to turn other than Yennefer, but she was all the way in Skellige.

Sensing his mood, Triss added, “I may know someone who could help, but you’re not going to like it.”

“Who’s that?”

“The Lodge.”

“I’d rather not get them involved.” After a moment’s consideration, Geralt scowled. “But I don’t really have any other options here. How soon can you contact them?”

“I’ll contact them straight away. Are you planning on staying in Oxenfurt?”

“No, meet me in Novigrad. Zoltan’s holding on to the phylactery for me. Figured it would be safer with him than traveling the countryside.”

“Alright. I’ll meet you after dusk tomorrow, at the Kingfisher.”

Geralt nodded. “Be careful, Triss. I hate to put you in harm’s way, but—” He trailed off, not really knowing how to express the gravity of the situation with Ciri. Fortunately, he didn’t have to.

Holding up a hand, Triss cut in. “It’s my choice to make. Besides, I want Ciri to be safe just as much as you do, Geralt. She’s always been like a little sister to me.”

Nodding again, Geralt replied, “Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

They both went their separate ways and Geralt wasted no time in leaving the city. Triss was right, he probably wouldn’t find anywhere that would willingly provide him lodging anyway. So he decided just to head for Novigrad.

He hadn’t made it very far before darkness had fallen and he had had to make camp for the night. Although camp was a generous term. He had simply found a comfortable spot a suitable distance from the road and lain down to sleep, his swords carefully placed beside him on the grass.

Hopefully tomorrow he would have some answers. And would finally be back on Ciri’s trail.

* * *

Something on the edge of Geralt’s consciousness woke him. Boots—multiple pairs. Heavy footsteps—men in armor. Drawing his sword, Geralt jumped to his feet, instantly ready for an attack.

“Easy there,” a dark-haired man called out, holding his hands up in a placating gesture, “We only want to talk.” Judging by the comparative quality of the man’s armor, the sword at his hip, he was in charge. The man had a hard look about him and the graciousness in his voice belied the cold face, the calculating stare.

Geralt knew it was a lie. A squad of fully-armored men—Geralt counted five—didn’t sneak up on someone in the middle of the night just to talk. He didn’t lower his sword, eyes roving from man to man.

Something hardened in the man’s eyes and he let his arms fall to his sides, voice dropping all pretense of civility. “Can’t say I didn’t try.”

Geralt squinted in confusion. Then he heard it, the slightest whistle from the left. There was no time to think. Pure instinct brought Geralt’s sword swinging to the left, turning the flat of the blade away from his body and deflecting a crossbow bolt inches from his head. Geralt actually stumbled back a half step in shock, amazing even himself at his deftness. But there was no time to recover.

The man who had spoken came at Geralt, swinging his sword. A sloppy parry carried Geralt backwards a few more steps, ready for an attack from behind. But none came. The others were only watching, waiting. Geralt shifted his focus back to the man in front of him and charged. The two of them engaged in a tense, albeit one-sided battle. Geralt could tell the man was a great swordsman, but he almost seemed to be holding back. It didn’t make any sense. The man was easily holding his own, yet he would never press any advantage, instead letting Geralt make every advance and simply blocking it away. Only when Geralt closed in a little too much did the other men step in and force Geralt to alter his attack. Their only function seemed to be keeping him at bay. The skirmish continued in such fashion for a few minutes until Geralt’s and the dark-haired man’s swords clashed and held together between them, each vying to break free.

Then the man smiled. It was too late.

Another whistle came from the same direction as before. Locked as it was against the other man’s own, Geralt couldn’t bring his sword up fast enough to deflect, nor could he dodge in time. The bolt found its mark in Geralt’s temple, but it had been blunted, meant to incapacitate, not kill. The blow sent Geralt sprawling on his side, his sword falling limply from his hand. The world faded as Geralt struggled to keep his eyes open. The last thing he saw was the man approaching. Then darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

A pounding headache greeted Geralt as he groggily opened his eyes. It took a moment for them to bring the world into focus. The resulting view was bleak. He was in some sort of dungeon, hewn from stone. An iron door offered the only break in the otherwise homogenous walls, a single torch blazing nearby. Geralt was chained to the opposite wall, arms strung up to either side over his head, feet tied down beneath him. He had been stripped of his armor and weapons, left only with his trousers and boots. The cool air danced across his bare chest and icy stone clawed at his back. But it was not they that sent a chill running down his spine. The dark-haired man approached, eyes overflowing with hatred, desperation. This man had nothing to lose. This man was dangerous.

“Geralt of Rivia, awake at last. I was afraid my man had sent you into a coma. Guess his aim was a little better than I thought.” He gestured to the man next to him, one of two flanking him on either side.

How long had he been out? From the way his shoulders ached, it could have been a couple days.

“No matter. Now that you’re awake, we can finally have our little chat.” The man’s voice was cordial and calm, completely contrary to the situation.

“But you haven’t even introduced yourself,” Geralt responded sarcastically.

A flash in the man’s eyes. “How rude of me.” A disingenuous smile split his face. “I’m Captain Roth. Well, former captain, that is. You see, I was the one sent to capture your Cirilla. I was there on Temple Isle.” He was becoming more and more agitated, his words growing angry. “I had her in my grasp. And then she was gone, disappeared into thin air! It didn’t matter how many people swore it was the truth, someone had to take the blame. A lifetime of service dismissed in an instant. I was thrown to the wolves, forced to claw my way up the ranks all over again.”

“If you think I’m going to tell you where Ciri is, you’re sadly mistaken,” Geralt interrupted. He would rather die than endanger Ciri. Not to mention he himself didn’t know where she was anyway.

The disturbing smile returned. “Oh, no. I’m no longer interested in Cirilla. I’m not going to risk going after her again. Not when my position is precarious as it is.”

The statement left Geralt slightly taken aback. Then who was he after?

“There’s only one person besides Cirilla whose capture could earn me back my captaincy. Only one of high enough import to merit my immediate promotion—Triss Merigold. I know she’s in Velen and I know you’ve contacted her. You’re going to tell me where she is.”

Geralt answered only with a stony silence. His relationship with Triss may have been complicated, but his answer to Roth was simple. Geralt would never betray Triss.

Roth’s voice grew steely, a hard glint crept into his eyes. “I’m giving you one chance, witcher. Do not push me.”

“It doesn’t matter how many chances you give me, you’ll never find her,” Geralt shot back smoothly.

A pause. “Very well.”

Without any perceptible signal from Roth, the crossbowman stepped forward, brandishing a small knife. Practiced hands drew it slowly across Geralt’s chest, cutting as deeply as he could without damaging anything vital. The blade’s edge was dull and jagged, intentionally uncared for to cause more pain. Geralt could even see caked-on blood and grime, no doubt carved from previous victims, and left to intimidate new ones.

Geralt ground his teeth to stifle a cry. It was going to take more than a mere flesh wound to make him waver. Besides, Geralt admitted to himself, he had been through much worse. The scars ensconcing his body were evidence of that.

Seemingly driven on by Geralt’s lack of response, the man continued slicing, crisscrossing Geralt’s torso with his knife and leaving a latticework of ruined skin and muscle. By the sixth cut, a soft groan escaped unbidden from between Geralt’s lips. Sweat poured from his brow, a testament to his efforts at keeping silent. In the end, it only added to his misery as the salty drops stung their way down his chest.

The corners of Roth’s mouth lifted ever so slightly. But the torture did not stop.

Geralt didn’t know how long it lasted, it could have been minutes or hours. Blood ran freely down his body, a large pool of it gathering at his feet. He had long since stopped caring whether he cried out or not. His ears couldn’t hear anything but the scrape of metal on flesh. His vision dimmed as his body grew cold and heavy, his head hanging limply. A white cascade of hair blocked Roth from his sight. From far away, a voice called out.

“Enough.”

The single word tore Geralt from his stupor, though it quickly fought to take hold once more. Geralt lifted his head enough to look at Roth who was now joined by the man holding the knife. A knife that still cast off crimson droplets where it hung by the man’s side.

Roth spoke again, the dark humor returning to his voice. “We wouldn’t want Geralt to bleed out too quickly, now would we?” He jutted his chin. “Patch him up, boys.” He crossed his arms as his two men left the room briefly. They returned in less than a minute carrying a small brazier between them, already ablaze. The bearers wore thick, leather gloves to protect their hands.

Geralt could feel the heat radiating from it as they drew near. Inside the fire were two long rods of metal glowing white-hot at the tips. Before Geralt could summon up the strength to even fear what was about to happen, the rods had been ripped free of the flames. Smoke rose from Geralt’s skin as the metal seared into his flesh. Undimmed screams echoed through the chamber and Geralt reflexively struggled against his bonds, slamming himself into the wall behind him in an effort to escape the scorching heat. Bruises were already forming from the impact. With adrenaline coursing through his veins, Geralt fought until his wrists were torn and frayed and small rivulets of blood streamed down his arms.

They didn’t stop until every last wound had been cauterized. And Geralt’s injuries had been extensive. The men hadn’t bothered to burn only the lacerations either. By that time, Geralt’s throat was raw and ragged to say nothing of his chest. Where smooth, albeit scarred, skin once reigned was now a mangled mass of charred skin and flesh that oozed and bubbled at the slightest provocation. Every breath was agonizing as it stretched the devastated area.

But it still didn’t end there.

Obviously pleased with Geralt’s discomfort, Roth strode up to him until they were face to face, his voice a mere whisper. “I told you I would only give you one chance, but now I offer you a second. Consider it a gift. Tell me where she is and I will set you free. Deny me again and you will know no other feeling than pain and suffering until I pry the information from your withered body. Then you will live out your days as a subject for my men to use to perfect their…methods. And I hear witchers have very long lives.” He held Geralt’s gaze with his cold, dark eyes.

It didn’t matter what Roth threatened Geralt with, he had made his choice. He highly doubted that Roth wouldn’t just continue torturing him anyway, sadistic as he seemed to be. No, Geralt would never turn on Triss. At the very least she was a dear friend. At the most—he wasn’t sure. They had been lovers once, but had they been in love? It was a question for another time. Either way, his answer was the same.

Not trusting himself to speak, Geralt did the only thing he could think of and spat directly in Roth’s face, willing as much contempt into his glare as he could muster, still panting from the pain.

Without taking his eyes from Geralt, Roth ordered, “Keep him warm boys, we wouldn’t want Geralt to get cold through the night.” He slowly backed to the door as his men brought forth the brazier and set it inches from Geralt.

The heat was still considerable and it only intensified the pain through Geralt’s torso. Anger, frustration, and pain flared within Geralt, set him shaking. Roth’s men exited the room leaving only the former captain at the door.

“See you in the morning, witcher.” Roth laughed and turned from the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

Geralt clenched his teeth, too angry to give Roth the satisfaction of hearing his screams reverberate down the hall. Once a couple of minutes had passed however, he couldn’t fight it any longer and let out a frustrated moan. At least the edge of the brazier wasn’t touching Geralt, even when he let himself fully hang from the wall, though only just. It was a small consolation. The leather of his trousers protected his legs though it still felt like wading into a hot spring with a terrible sunburn. It was the skin just above the waistband that took the brunt of the flames. After twenty minutes, it started blistering and bubbling. It had been one of the only untouched areas on Geralt’s abdomen, but now it matched the rest of his ruined chest. The cauterized wounds across his body came alive again and scalded him unendingly—a thousand angry wasps stinging and biting, a thousand werewolf claws ripping through him, a thousand honed blades driving into his chest. He had long since lost his voice.

Hours passed in agony. Even once the flames burned out, the smoldering cinders still offered an inimical heat, the small glow chuckling underneath feathery ashes. Geralt may as well have been on fire—a witch burning at the stake; burning so that Triss wouldn’t. It wasn’t remotely ideal, but he wouldn’t willingly have them switch places. He wouldn’t condemn Triss just to spare himself. She meant too much to him for that.

A lifetime came and went, Geralt flickering on the brink of consciousness. Every part of him wished he would just pass out and be free of the torment. He was standing on the edge of a cliff, looking over, a raging wildfire at his back. He wanted to jump, to escape to the cool waters below, but every time he gathered the will to leap, something yanked him back to the unforgiving earth with an equally unforgiving laugh. That nagging heat just wouldn’t die.

It was in that state of near-delirium that Geralt heard it. A faint creak quickly sourced to the hinges on the rusting door. Soft footsteps approached. It wasn’t until a lilting voice followed that Geralt realized what was happening.

Triss had come.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

“Gods.”

Geralt summoned the strength to look up only to see Triss standing horror-stricken in the doorway. Once she spotted the brazier, she came surging forward, kicking it aside. It skittered to a halt along the side wall. The sudden rush of cool air kissed Geralt’s burns and he actually gasped in relief.

Triss couldn’t be there, it wasn’t real. How would she even know where he was? He simply didn’t care at the moment. Maybe it was just a dream, but he certainly wasn’t going to question it. The only thing that concerned him was that if Triss really was there, she was in danger. “Triss.” It was barely even a croak. “You can’t… they’re looking…” Geralt could hardly speak, but Triss silenced him with a wave of her hand anyway.

“I know. That’s why I came. I couldn’t let them…” She took in his ravaged form and tears pooled in her eyes. “I’m so sorry.” His lack of response spurred her onward and she blinked back her tears, resolve hardening. Her words were soft, determined, expectant of obedience. “Geralt, just stay with me. I’m getting you out of here.”

With a muttered spell, his shackles came free. She caught him under the arm and looped her other arm around his back, careful to steer clear of his wounds. He grunted with the sudden movement. Having the fire away from him was a relief, but a small one. Each step was excruciating and he had lost a lot of blood in the initial torture. It took everything in him just to keep his feet under himself.

The hallway was just as cold and damp as the cell had been and Geralt could see that there were many other cells besides his. It was utterly dark as well. Only a few torches lined the considerable length of the corridor, usually near an offshoot that branched to another wing of the dungeon. Yet more doors disappeared behind corners as they passed.

The going was slow. Triss wasn’t quite strong enough to carry much of Geralt’s weight and Geralt was too far gone to do much more than drag one foot after the other. He was straining just to keep his eyes open. Once they came to a set of stairs, they slowed to a crawl. Geralt could barely move by the time they reached the top.

Up on the next level, the air was fresher, cleaner, somehow less stale than it had been. They were probably back above ground judging by how many steps they had climbed. Geralt was just glad they hadn’t run into anyone. Most likely Roth’s men were all asleep. Then, as if to prove him wrong, Geralt heard footsteps approaching, coming from a connecting corridor in front of them. He knew Triss had no chance of escaping if she was towing him around. She had to get out of there.

“Triss… leave me… go…” He tried to get his point across in as few words as possible, but she just ignored him and kept them moving.

“I’m a big girl, Geralt. I can take care of myself.”

The footsteps grew nearer, any second they would be found out. But Triss looked unconcerned. Maybe she couldn’t hear what he could.

“Besides,” Triss added, “that’s not who you think it is.”

Triss pointed toward the junction ahead and there, striding into the pool of light, was Shani, with both of Geralt’s swords and a large sack strung over her back. In his delirium, Geralt hadn’t even noticed that the footsteps were light, careful—a woman seeking to go unnoticed.

“Geralt!” Shani stood shocked as he and Triss moved into the light. She shot Triss a questioning look that bordered on accusatory.

“Later,” Triss countered. “Right now we need to get him out.”

Shani nodded once in agreement and took her place opposite Triss under Geralt’s other arm. As they started moving, Geralt spoke, voicing his question in a single word. “Portal…”

Triss luckily understood what he meant. “I can’t make a portal until we get clear of the grounds. There is some kind of magic barrier around this place. I can use magic within it, but it won’t extend beyond the border. Somehow it just… disappears. Like it fades into nothing. We are going to have to get outside the old fashioned way, I’m afraid.”

With that, they trudged along in silence, Geralt having to spend a considerable amount of energy to remain quiet. They were moving a lot faster with Shani bearing some of Geralt’s weight, however, and they made it to the exterior door in a matter of minutes. They were nearly free.

“There’s a door in the outer wall maybe twenty yards past this point. Once we get through, I’m going to open up a portal so we can get out of here. There are a few guards on duty from what I could tell, but they generally aren’t looking this way as it’s on the back side of the complex. If we stay quiet, we should make it to the door without a problem,” Triss explained in hushed tones. After taking a moment to meet Shani’s determined gaze, Triss carefully unlatched the door and swung it wide.

But as soon as they stepped out into the open, a biting wind rammed into Geralt’s chest and it was too much for him. He cried out, a sound that pierced the chilly night air and carried across the grounds. He quickly bit down on his tongue to stifle the noise, hard enough that a bitter metallic taste coated his mouth. But it was too late. Up on a terrace, a guard swiveled to find the source of the noise.

“There! He’s escaping!!” The guard nocked an arrow to his bow and fired.

Triss hurriedly threw up a protective shield and the arrow ricocheted off harmlessly. “Go! Get to the trees, I’ll hold them off!”

The tree line was another thirty yards past the outer wall. Geralt didn’t see how they could make it, not with him slowing them down. But he knew they wouldn’t leave him and he wasn’t going to have their deaths on his hands. So he dipped into whatever willpower he had left and started running, or as close to it as he could manage with Shani’s assistance.

The complex was relatively large. They had exited one of the main buildings that looked as though it had been some sort of abandoned outpost. A tower jutted up from the side of it. The tower, along with the other buildings, was shabby and crumbling. It must have been twenty feet higher in its heyday. Vines strangled the stone walls and the courtyards were completely overgrown with weeds and grasses. The trio stumbled their way through the undergrowth, weaving between chunks of crumbled stone.

Guards were pouring from doorways looking disheveled, woken from what should have been a peaceful sleep. Some drew swords while others loaded crossbows and strung bows.

Triss hung back to deal with them as Geralt and Shani made for the door. A cacophony of shouting and swearing followed the pair to the door, swelling ever louder. Mixed in amongst the din were lyrical spells, uttered by Triss to buy them time. She hurled fireballs at swordsmen and constantly sent up barriers to deflect bolts and arrows. She even turned the plants on the attackers, bidding the vines and brambles to tangle around their feet. Her defenses never wavered.

It wasn’t until they all reached the outer wall that a booming call sounded above the tumult.

“STOP THEM!” Roth bellowed, having just emerged onto a balcony halfway up the tower. He had already loosed an arrow from the powerful longbow in his hand.

Triss was the only one who had turned back, focused as she was on stopping incoming arrows, but Geralt knew it was Roth by sound alone. He would know that voice anywhere. And he knew Roth would stop at nothing to keep them from escaping. Geralt bade his feet move faster.

A sudden flash of light illuminated the trees ahead of them as a portal blinked into existence. Geralt and Shani were only feet away, hastening towards freedom, Triss right behind them. A colossal roar thundered after them. Then the world closed in around Geralt and all went silent.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

They were free, but far from safe. Triss’ portal had taken them to an abandoned building on the edge of Oxenfurt, where she had been staying for the last couple of months, ever since it had become too risky to stay in Novigrad. The house was small and run-down, but good enough for her purposes.

They landed in the main room. There was a ratty armchair in the corner opposite the front door that acted as a sentinel to the bedroom. Inside the bedroom, a side table stood next to a large bed. A small dresser and a few stools lined the wall. The one bit of comfort the home offered was a wood-stove in the corner of the main room, next to the armchair. It wasn’t the lavish lifestyle Triss was used to, but she knew no one would bother her there. There were rumors that the place was haunted. Rumors that Triss herself would often propagate.

Even still, Triss knew it was only a matter of time before the witch hunters found her hiding place in Oxenfurt, but it was the only place she could think of where she could take Geralt to be treated. And he needed treatment desperately.

The escape had drained him of any last vestige of strength. He couldn’t even keep his feet under him as they stepped out of the portal. Luckily, there were two of them to support him. All she could do was keep hold of him as she watched him writhe and moan in pain.

“Get him to the bed,” Shani ordered, hurried but not quite frantic. “I need to treat these wounds as quickly as possible.” She had taken on her medic persona, all business and no emotion. Though Triss could detect a shade of worry in her voice. That didn’t bode well.

They dragged Geralt to the back room and deposited him as gently as they could onto the bed. He was barely lucid, lost in his own agony. Spit flew from between his gritted teeth and white-knuckled fists clenched and unclenched in time with his labored breathing. His eyes roamed the ceiling, unfocused and clouded.

Triss stepped aside to soundproof the room with a spell as Shani set to work.

Shani leaned Geralt’s swords against the footboard of the bed and pulled his armor from the sack she had slung over her back. Deep within the bag were her medical supplies and she searched around with her hand until she came across a small jar containing an antiseptic. She dipped her fingers in the cream, leaning over Geralt.

“I’m sorry, Geralt, but I’m going to have to clean these wounds before I can bandage them.”

Geralt made no reply until Shani pressed a minute amount of the cream into one of his wounds. Then he let out a wail that shook the rafters.

With difficulty borne of concern for Geralt, Triss finished her spell and turned to Shani, throwing her hand up in front of her. “Wait!” As Shani paused her ministrations, Triss muttered a spell at Geralt. Immediately, his eyes drooped, head and arms following shortly after. His breathing calmed as his face relaxed into the first sign of peace Triss had seen on it since she had found him in that cell.

Shani looked relieved. “Thank you. Sometimes I forget how useful it is to have a sorceress around.” She went back to cleaning and bandaging Geralt’s wounds. Triss sat down on the edge of the bed opposite Shani, watching.

“It’s my fault that this happened to him. I knew those witch hunters were after me. They nearly killed Geralt because he wouldn’t tell them where I was.” Triss’ grief quickly turned to anger. “He should have just told them what they wanted to know! I can handle witch hunters.”

Shani kept her focus on Geralt, but still offered a response. “You know he would never do that to you. And you would have done the same in his place. Besides, I’m not so sure you want to take on the leader of that particular group. Roth, I think his name is. I’ve heard stories about him, his ruthlessness, his cruelty.”

“How do you know who he is?”

“When you came to me a few days ago, after Geralt hadn’t shown up to your rendezvous, I went to my friends in the city guard. Apparently Roth has a reputation that stretches further than Novigrad. They told me about some of the horrors he had committed. They were the ones who told me about Roth’s hideout.”

“It doesn’t matter what the rumors are. Witch hunters are just dumb brutes the lot of them. Out for blood and nothing more. This Roth is no different.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. He’s smart, crafty, cunning. And from the sounds of it, he’d stop at nothing to get what he wants.” Shani looked up. “I’d be careful around him if I were you.”

“Either way, I’ll deal with him eventually. He’s going to pay for what he did. And hopefully I can send a message to the other witch hunters out there. Sorceresses are not so easily hunted.” Her face burned with rage and determination, only for an instant, before it returned to worry and sorrow. “How is he?” Triss jerked her chin towards Geralt.

Shani hesitated just long enough to tell Triss everything she needed to know. “He’ll live. But it’s a good thing we found him when we did. Any longer and I’m not sure he would have survived.”

Triss’ eyes were downcast. “When he didn’t show up a few days ago, I… I just knew he had been taken. After the ruckus he caused in Oxenfurt… it just drew too much attention. The witch hunters were bound to notice, to come poking their noses. I knew you were in the city, that you would be willing to help, and that… that Geralt would likely need it.”

“I’m glad you came to me. I wouldn’t have trusted this with any other healer. It’s going to take a while for these burns to heal, even with his witcher healing.” Shani finished the last bandage and straightened on the stool she had pulled over to the bedside, stretching muscles cramped from hunching over so long. “I’m going to have to go out tomorrow to get more supplies. When you had contacted me saying Geralt might need help… well, let’s just say I wasn’t expecting this.”

Triss felt a twinge of guilt at the words, though she knew Shani hadn’t meant it that way. She turned her head to blink back tears. Triss hated that there was nothing more she could do for Geralt. She dared not use magic to heal him. Healing magic was extremely fickle. One wrong step, one misplaced muscle or nerve or sinew and Geralt could end up crippled, paralyzed. Or worse. She couldn’t risk it. Not even for what he had been through. She would leave the healing to Shani.

Once Triss had composed herself, she stood. “Well, he’s going to be out for a while with that spell I cast on him. We’d better get some rest too, while we can.”

While Shani organized her remedies on the dresser, Triss walked to the door, stopping only to look back once more at Geralt. He lay bloodied and broken on the bed, chest completely covered in strips of white cloth, wrists raw and red. Triss had never seen Geralt so far gone. And she couldn’t stand that he had endured it because of her. She didn’t care what Shani had said about Roth. She was going to find him.

And make him pay.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

The sun peaked over the horizon just a few hours later. Neither Triss nor Shani had gotten much sleep that night and Shani was already up and ready to go by the time the birds had started singing. It would have been extremely risky for Shani to show her face in public were it not for the fact that low clouds were rolling in, bringing with them sheets of rain. A hood would serve the dual purpose of hiding her face and protecting her from the downpour. Not to mention a hood was a lot less suspicious during a storm.

Triss met Shani at the door. “Be careful out there. Try to stay out of sight as much as possible.”

Shani nodded, slinging a small bag over her shoulder. “I will.”

As Triss opened the door, the loud drumming of the rain hit them both. “I think it would be best if you didn’t come back until after nightfall. There’s too much of a chance of you being spotted coming back here in the daytime.”

“Agreed. Geralt’s bandages should hold until I get back. Just keep him in bed, he needs to rest and move as little as possible.” Shani hunched herself against the wind and strode out into the storm.

Turning back from the door, Triss sent up a silent prayer to whatever gods were listening for Shani’s safe return. For all of their sakes.

* * *

By dusk, Triss was a nervous wreck. She alternated between pacing the front room and sitting next to Geralt, just to make sure he was still alright. He hadn’t woken all day, long past what her spell would have accounted for. His breathing was steady if a bit shallow. He just needed rest, she told herself. He had been through a lot.

It was during one of those quiet moments of watchful care that an enormous crash rang from the front door. Triss immediately jumped to her feet, spells already forming on the tip of her tongue. She flew to the front room, pulling the door to the bedroom closed behind her.

The front door had been battered open, the jamb splintered near the lock.

The witch hunters had found them, the rain covering their approach.

Two men charged through the opening, swords drawn, dimeritium shackles dangling from their belts. Before they knew what was happening, Triss had shot a fireball at them. It caught one head-on, sending him flying into the wall. He clattered to the floor, a shattered skull spilling blood while his clothes smoldered. His compatriot took less of a hit, but the side of his face instantly caught fire and he screamed, dropping his sword to bat at the flames and running from the room, seeking to quell the fire in the rain.

The next brave soul to enter the house was skewered by a giant shard of ice that pinned him to the wall. He grabbed at the icicle protruding from his chest for a few moments before he fell limp, a pool of blood and water collecting at his feet.

But they didn’t stop coming.

After that, Triss didn’t fare as well. The next two were smart enough to dodge her attack, ducking back behind the door frame as she launched a spell their way, then darting inside before she could summon up another one. She only just raised a shield in time to block their counterattack.

That’s when Roth entered, a smug look plastered across his face.

Fury boiled inside Triss and she snarled a spell in his direction.

But it didn’t come.

Triss held her hand out futilely in front of her as the magic died at her fingertips. She didn’t understand what had happened. That spell had never failed her before.

Roth merely laughed. “Think I came unprepared, did you?” He held up a talisman hanging around his neck. “I had this made specially from one of my _guests_. You’ve felt the effects of his magic before, at my compound. A slightly different spell, that, but with somewhat of the same concept. It blocks higher magic. In the case of this talisman, it blocks it completely within a short range. You are powerless against me.”

Triss knew she couldn’t win this fight, but she was too enraged to care. “Why don’t you come over here and see just how powerless I am.”

Roth smirked. “I think not.” He motioned to the men that had surrounded her. “Boys.”

They obediently closed in on her, but Triss wasn’t going to go willingly. As they made to grab her, she ducked down and aimed a punch straight at one of their groins, leaving the man doubled over and gasping. Unfortunately, by that time, the other man had seized her by the arms and already had one side of the shackles around her wrist. Triss struggled wildly against him, but was no match for his strength. He succeeded in tightening the other shackle and shoved her toward the door, a guiding hand lingering on her shoulder.

“Now, now. Be a good girl and behave. Then maybe I’ll make sure they douse you in oil too when you burn at the stake. It’ll make for a quick death.” Ross smiled at Triss and received only a loathing glare in return. “Well, relatively.”

Roth and the man Triss had incapacitated stayed behind as Triss was led from the house. Strings of curses flew from her lips, but were soon drowned out by the pounding rain. Just before she rounded the corner, there was a small thump from the back room. Everyone stopped.

Turning to the other man, Roth asked, “What was that?” The man gave the slightest shake of his head. “Well go check it out.” A small light burst into existence behind Roth’s eyes. “I think we just found our old friend, the witcher.”

 _No_.

Triss’ heart beat through her chest as she sought a way to fight, to do _something_. Anything. She doubled her efforts against her captor, but to no avail. Without her magic, there was nothing she could do. Geralt was on his own.

* * *

The sounds of a raging battle plucked Geralt from his slumber. Instinct had him leaping to his feet, ready to fight. But his body wouldn’t obey. Paralyzing pain racked his nerves with barely a movement. His groan was lost amongst the clamor. Despite his desire to fight, it took a minute for Geralt to compose himself enough to attempt moving again. The next thing he knew, all had gone silent.

Had he blacked out? He honestly didn’t know.

The clashing had ended. There was talking now, muffled by the wall between them. Only Geralt’s sensitive hearing made it clear. Clear enough to know that Triss was in trouble. He gingerly slid from the bed, almost falling to the floor. Using the bed as a rail, Geralt pulled himself to the foot of the bed and unsheathed his sword. The extra weight threw him off balance and he stumbled backwards, crashing against the wall. He landed right next to the closed door. The hit pained him, but he clamped his teeth shut.

Again, that instinct shouted at him, ordering him to be quiet. If there was a battle just outside the room and they hadn’t come for him already, then they probably didn’t know he was there. He had surprise on his side.

He waited, poised to strike.

A witch hunter came crashing through the door, barreling forward, clearly expecting a fight. But in his haste, he had blown right past Geralt who took the opportunity to thrust forward into the man’s back. It was a straight shot to his heart. The man instantly dropped to the ground, dead. Geralt had won the bout, but he had underestimated how much energy it would drain from his already depleted stores. His spirit was willing, but his body was done. He wouldn’t even have been awake were it not for some innate sense of danger that had ripped him from unconsciousness. It took all he had just to pull the sword from the cooling corpse, an action that sent him sprawling through the door into the front room. He landed on his back and barely had enough strength to hold his sword over him as protection.

Triss was by the door, shackled but seemingly unharmed, closely flanked by one of Roth’s men. Her eyes grew wide with dismay at the sight of Geralt.

Stealing Geralt’s attention back, Roth approached, amused. “Well, well, well. Geralt of Rivia. You don’t look so good.” Geralt retreated, dragging himself along the floor until he was propped up against the armchair, breaths coming in rasping wheezes. Roth followed and lazily kicked the sword from Geralt’s hand. A contemptuous smile flashed yellowing teeth.

Geralt wasn’t in the mood to play his games. With all of the authority he could muster, he commanded, “Let her go.”

Amusement shifted to annoyance. Roth glanced quickly over his shoulder. “You’re in no position to be giving me orders.”

Geralt’s tone grew steelier. “Let her go, or I will kill you.”

Roth must have sensed that Geralt truly meant it because the slightest flicker of fear danced in his eyes. Then rage washed it away. “No one threatens me, witcher. I already have my prize. You are nothing now but an inconvenience. One that I am going to eliminate, here and now.” He stormed forward, sword raised.

Triss cried out from behind Roth, flailing wildly. “Nooooooo!”

Facing death was routine for a witcher. It brought with it a certain clarity. Something that Geralt had made use of many times in the past. He knew he would not escape this encounter unscathed. The best he could hope for was to escape with his life.

There was only one thing he could do.

With the last of his energy, he threw out a sign of Quen. The barrier was weak and miniscule, barely enough to cover his vital organs. But it was also discreet. Roth was aiming for Geralt’s lower torso. The sadistic bastard wasn’t even going for an instant kill. He wanted Geralt to bleed out slowly, intestines strewn across the floor.

The blow glanced to the side. Just enough that Geralt knew it wasn’t lethal. Just enough that Roth didn’t.

And Geralt wasn’t going to let him in on the secret. Though he didn’t have to fake the pain. The blade ripped through his old wounds and lodged into the floorboards beneath Geralt. A torrent of blood quickly stained his white bandages. Geralt’s hands flew to the blade reflexively, seeking to eke out any measure of control they could.

Geralt panted and gasped, trying not to move, to keep his breathing shallow. Each breath only served to slice himself further across the razor-edge.

Triss was screaming, cursing at Roth. The man with darkness in his eyes wholly ignored her.

Leaning low over Geralt, Roth sneered. “I was going to let you see her again, you know. You were going to watch while I burned her alive. Then you would have joined her.” He twisted the blade sharply and Geralt cried out, unable to control himself. “I guess this will just have to do.”

“You bastard! You already have me, just let him go!” Triss choked out, voice awash with desperation.

But Roth had closed in on his prey and bloodlust made him deaf to her pleas. For a moment, Roth studied Geralt for any sign of resistance. Finding none, he wrenched the sword from Geralt’s gut and backed away. “Don’t worry though, you’ll see your precious Triss again very soon.” He motioned toward the door. “Take her away.”

Looking from Geralt to Roth, and before the man could lead her from the house, Triss said, “I have friends out there who will come to save me. All I have to do is wait.” She glanced back to Geralt who caught her eye.

“Shut up and walk, witch. No one is going to save you now,” Roth shot back.

Triss’ escort gave her a rough shove out into the storm. Then they were gone.

Geralt didn’t have any time to waste. He had avoided a killing blow, but he could still very well bleed out and he didn’t have the wherewithal to stitch himself up. That left one alternative. One that Triss had cleverly provided him. Disguised as a threat, her words had actually been a message. A message for him.

Shani was still out there. And she would be back soon.

His only hope was to last long enough for her to return. Luckily, his witcher training was useful not only for taking life, but for saving it. He willed his racing heart to stop betraying him. With every pump, it was propelling crimson life to gush from his veins. His breathing became barely perceptible, heartbeat no more than a murmur. The gathering pool of blood eased its advance. He was dangling on the very edge of consciousness, knowing that if he slipped under, he would lose control, would lose his life.

In that state of suspended life he waited. And could only hope that Shani would return soon.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Shani had waited until a few hours after dusk before she dared to go back to the house. She had easily found all of the supplies that she needed at the market. Plus a few that she didn’t, just in case. While she had shopped, she was careful to hide her face, feigning an extreme aversion to getting wet. No one seemed suspicious of it. They probably thought she was some spoiled child, sent to get medicine in the rain. Still, she was careful not to buy too much in one location. She must have gone to half a dozen merchants, which took a lot longer than was actually necessary.

With her bag filled to the brim, she cautiously strode towards the abandoned house, checking her surroundings to make sure no one was watching. Preoccupied as she was with making sure she was alone, she didn’t even notice the door was open until she reached for the handle.

That’s when her heart plummeted.

The door had been bashed open, swaying on its hinges. Mouth suddenly dry, she rushed inside. There were bodies everywhere. Two were right next to the door—witch hunters. Her eyes landed on the third only to realize that it was Geralt, dead on the floor.

No—not dead.

The slightest movement of his chest restored the color that had drained from her face. In two steps she was next to him, feeling for his vitals. “Geralt?” He was ice cold and there was a lot of blood collected around him. It wasn’t good. She could barely feel a pulse and her touch engendered no response.

It was easy enough to find the source of his decay. The bandages were soaked through with blood radiating outward from a nasty stab wound. Shani dashed to the back room for her suture kit, knocking over a dozen other bottles and medical instruments and almost tripping over yet another dead witch hunter in her haste.

She hadn’t seen Triss. That could only mean one thing. They had taken Triss and left Geralt for dead. There was nothing she could do for Triss, not yet anyway. She needed to focus her attention on Geralt right now.

The stitches were the easy part. She could have stitched someone torn in half back together again with her eyes closed. It was maneuvering Geralt to where she could get at his wound that took some effort. In the end, she just pulled his legs out further so that he was lying flat on his back, then flipped him over to treat the exit wound. She had even packed in a few ointments of her own making that would help stop the bleeding and facilitate healing. But her work wasn’t done yet.

Geralt was cold, much too cold. Especially for how much blood he had lost. Gods, he was practically blue. If she didn’t warm him up soon, he might never recover. The front door wouldn’t stay closed on account of how damaged it was so she had to drag the armchair in front of it. It would work as a nice barricade in any case should the witch hunters decide they would return. Geralt was too heavy for Shani to carry to the bed by herself so she made him as comfortable as possible where he lay on the floor, placing a pillow under his head and throwing as many blankets and cloaks as she could over him. She lit the stove, grateful herself for the heat it emitted.

She had done all she could.

It was up to Geralt now.

* * *

In his waking dreams, Geralt was burning once more, drowning in flames. He made to scream, to run, to fight in any way he could. But as logic returned to his mind, he realized this was a different kind of heat. It was pleasant, warm. Like a cat basking in the sun, he soaked it in, relishing in its comfort. Thankful for once that he could enjoy its soft touch.

Suddenly the warmth had a sound. Gentle crackling and spitting. The smell of damp wood burning pervaded his senses.

Then that crack of pain reared its ugly head and everything came flooding back.

His eyes shot open. Cobwebbed rafters bathed in a diffused glow greeted his sight. He was weighed down by a multitude of blankets that hindered his attempts to sit up. The movement caused pain to flare across his body, not as intense as it had been the last time he had awoken, but still there. Still debilitating.

“Geralt!” Shani rose from the chair. The sight of her sitting in a chair propped in front of the door was almost comical. As if she thought that the best way to guard it. “Here, let me help you.” She helped Geralt to sit and scoot backwards enough that he could lean against the wall. Geralt tried pushing himself to his feet, but Shani stopped him, placing her hands on his shoulders with enough pressure to hold him down. He was so weak. “Easy, Geralt. Let’s take this one step at a time.”

Panic and fear set him struggling against her. Didn’t she know Triss was in danger! He couldn’t just sit there and do nothing. “Shani, they took her!”

“I know—” Shani tried to say, but Geralt didn’t seem to hear her.

“We have to save her! They’re going to burn her at the stake!” He continued to throw himself forward, desperate to stand. Desperate to do anything. Then agony sliced across his body, doubling him over.

“Geralt, stop!” It was Shani’s tone that halted Geralt in his tracks—not authority, but fear. He fought to catch his breath and met Shani’s gaze, truly seeing her for the first time since his awakening. “Killing yourself won’t do her any good. Besides, it’s too late to go after her now. You’ve been out for a few days. The trail’s gone cold.”

Geralt ceased his struggle and sagged back to the ground, wincing as he hit the floor. Shani knelt down next to him.

“Well, then I need to get out there, find where they’ve taken her. You don’t understand—”

“I do, Geralt. I do. Just listen to me, alright?” She paused, waiting for Geralt to argue. At Geralt’s bidding, she continued, “I’ve contacted some friends from the academy who I thought might know where they took her. Unfortunately, no one knows where she’s being held. And these are the friends who knew where Roth was holding you, so she’s definitely not at that outpost. All they knew is that she is being held somewhere in the city.”

“Why are you telling me this? That doesn’t change anything.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” Shani chided. “I know where she _will_ be taken. They’re transporting her to Novigrad.” Reluctantly, she added, “To be burned at the stake.”

Geralt’s jaw clenched. He already knew what they would do with Triss if they caught her, but it was always an _if_. A distant fear. Now, the thought of it made him sick. “When?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“They could still be doing who knows what to her until then. We can’t risk waiting that long.” He knew all too well the extent of Roth’s hospitality.

“We don’t have a choice. Look, Geralt, we both know I can’t fight. And I’m not naïve enough to believe we have any other options here. You’re Triss’ only hope at this point and you need to recover if you want to stand any chance of saving her. Besides, I bet they are going to want Triss unmarred for her grand appearance. And there’s no way they are going to kill her secretly in some dungeon. A sorceress as well-known as her? They will want to make an example of her. A very public example.”

As much as he hated it, Geralt had to admit Shani was right. He would be no good to Triss right now. And the transport was undoubtedly the best chance they had at rescuing her. He just had to recover as best he could until then. But there was one thing he needed if he was going to stand even a chance at being ready by the following night.

“I need to brew some Swallow.”

Shani seemed relieved at his words, that he had seen the wisdom of her argument. “I’ll make it for you, just tell me how. Then you need to eat. And sleep.” She looked pointedly at him. He merely let himself lean back against the wall, resting his head with half-lidded eyes, still a little breathless with pain and fatigue.

Within half an hour, Shani had brewed the potion. She had had just enough of the ingredients for one dose. Any other medic probably wouldn’t have had them at all. Geralt marveled at his luck in friends. She handed him the small cup of Swallow and set down a large chunk of bread, a good amount of cheese, and a bag filled with dried meat next to them as she joined him on the floor. Geralt nodded his thanks and gulped down the potion in one long draught. It went down about as smooth as drowner blood, but he knew its abilities well and he was in desperate need of them. Grimacing with the aftertaste, he delved immediately into the food, mouth already watering. He hadn’t eaten in days.

Now sated, stomach full to bursting, Geralt felt weariness settling over him once more. Shani helped him to the bed. As he stood, the extra movement stretched his wounds and a blinding flash of pain hit him. He blenched, nearly pulling Shani down with him. After a moment, the agony dissipated, leaving him groaning with the aftershocks, Shani silently bearing him onward.

How could he fight like this? He couldn’t even walk on his own. Nor move without ripping himself apart. If he made one wrong move during the battle, he would be killed and, through his failure, so would Triss. Maybe even Shani if they found out she was helping him. One false step and it would all be over.

He couldn’t think like that. There was nothing for it, he had to fight. It was as simple as that.

And so he would.

Geralt collapsed into the bed, enjoyably cool pillows and blankets welcoming him into their embrace. He forced back the pain long enough to enjoy that feeling of something nice. Something pleasant. If only for a moment.

“I’ll mix something up to help you sleep,” Shani said, turning toward the dresser along the wall.

But exhaustion had claimed Geralt before he could even reply.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

It was a few hours after midnight. Geralt had been in place ever since dusk had fallen. His ambush point was carefully chosen—it wasn’t his first time. There were only two routes from Oxenfurt to Novigrad that were wide enough to allow a wagon passage—one that took a direct path north and west; and one that wound through the countryside to the east. The eastern path would take almost twice as long as the western so Geralt didn’t see any reason they would choose that one. He lay in wait a couple of hours outside of Oxenfurt, it would be too risky to try to take the transport too close to the walls. If the city guards heard what was happening, Geralt stood no chance.

So he had walked the path between towering trees, looking for a suitable vantage point. A particular bend in the road provided just that. The bend itself would slow the convoy down if they were traveling at speed and the ground banked up to one side giving Geralt not only the high ground, but a clear view of their approach while he remained hidden.

The trek hadn’t been easy. After only a few miles, Geralt had been winded, legs burning. Not to mention the pain. He had donned his armor, knowing he would need it, but even the tiniest shift in his body caused it to rub and irritate his wounds, no matter how much padding Shani had tried to coat Geralt with. It was miserable, but bearable for the most part. And a far cry from how he had been the day before. He was just happy that he had recovered enough to walk. More importantly, to wield a sword.

He whiled away the hours meditating, preparing for the battle to come. He had no illusions that it would be easy, but he had no choice. For him, there was no option. To save a friend was not something that needed to be considered, deliberated. It was a given. And once decided, there was no turning back.

Roth wasn’t going to win this time. Nor get away. No matter what. Geralt was going to end that blight upon the world once and for all. If not to stroke his own ego, then for Triss’ sake. And Ciri’s. Roth was a monster and the witcher profession had but one objective—to hunt down and kill monsters. In whatever form.

And so he waited.

But not for long.

A slow rumbling was building down the road—wagon wheels. Followed by footsteps and the clink of armor. It was definitely them.

Geralt slunk back into the shadows of the trees. Any minute now.

He was lucky. They didn’t seem to be in any sort of rush, the horses were only walking. Then he realized it was because there were six guards surrounding the wagon, fully clad in armor. They wouldn’t be able to keep up if they were moving any faster. Their armor wouldn’t pose a problem for Geralt. It was impressive, but not well made, he noted. His sword would cut right through it. He slowly drew his steel sword from its sheath, its hiss echoing his own as a twinge across his chest told him several wounds had stretched and cracked.

Geralt waited until the front of the wagon pulled even with his hiding spot, the driver, oblivious to Geralt’s presence, in full view.

Then he pounced.

In less than a second, the man’s head squelched to the ground and chaos erupted. The horses spooked at Geralt’s sudden appearance and ran ahead wildly, no longer guided by anyone, but stopped a short distance away when one of them became tangled in the trees and brambles.

Stunned, the guards took a moment to reorder themselves. In that span, Geralt felled two. The others came at him, shouting and swinging their swords crudely. They didn’t seem too experienced. And Roth wasn’t among them, Geralt noticed.

 _Strange_.

There was no time to contemplate the circumstances. Geralt dodged and weaved amongst his foes, parrying, striking, thrusting, twirling. Dancing the deadly waltz that he knew so well. By the time the song had ended, severed limbs and heads were strewn about six corpses, Geralt alone left as a bloodied monolith to the spectacle.

The fight had drained him and his breath came in hard gasps. Still, it had been well worth it. He staggered over to the cart, searching the driver’s body for the keys to the back door. Finding them in a pocket, Geralt unlocked the door and swung it wide.

The chamber was empty.

 _A decoy_.

Geralt slammed the door shut, roaring into the night. Roth had somehow outplayed him again. If he had planned for a decoy wagon, then Roth must have taken Triss’ threat seriously, despite his arrogance at the time. Geralt had honestly forgotten the threat behind her words considering the alternate significance they had held for him. A critical mistake.

It made no difference now. Geralt couldn’t change what had happened, but there was still a chance, he would just have to hurry. He dragged himself away from the empty cart, giving himself not an ounce of concession. Not one ounce of self-pity. Not even when a torrent of pain lanced up his side. He didn’t have the time or energy for self-pity anyway.

He cut loose one of the horses and leapt astride it bareback, digging his heels into its sides, pulling it eastward. The already frightened steed barreled forward through the forest, not bothering to avoid the small branches that sprung up to meet them.

Geralt didn’t care. The nicks and cuts were nothing compared to the agony spreading through his body. The commotion had reversed any progress his wounds had made over the past few days. He could feel the fire gnawing at him once more. But it didn’t matter. This time he had a reason to keep fighting.

No turning back.

Panic flickered in his heart and it urged him onward. He was beyond pain, beyond fear. Beyond even anger. He gritted his teeth and drove forward, spurring himself on just as much as his mount.

Geralt careened madly across the countryside, aiming more toward Novigrad than Oxenfurt. He hoped he could cut them off. As long as they hadn’t left earlier than the decoy, he should be able to make it. The trip took almost an hour of hard galloping. Both man and steed were spent by the time they came across the road.

No fresh tracks. He had made it in time.

Pulling hard to the right, Geralt swung the mare south, urging her on. She was dripping sweat, frothing at the bit, but she did as she was asked.

Finally. Finally the wagon appeared in the distance, flanked by the same amount of guards as the decoy had been. But there, perched next to the driver, was Roth, pointing in Geralt’s direction. The convoy quickened its pace, but it had nowhere to go except for straight into Geralt or back toward Oxenfurt, hemmed in as it was by trees.

Geralt hurtled toward it in a deadly game of chicken, only veering to his right at the last moment. As he rode past, he sliced through one of the two horse’s necks, killing it instantly. The horse dropped and the other stumbled over it, trying to find its feet. Meanwhile, the wagon rolled to a halt.

Not squandering his momentum, Geralt made sure to trample as many guards as he could on his way past. One man fell in the stampede. A hoof-shaped dent was all that was left of his face. Another received a swift kick from the mare, who was unhappy about being attacked, and he joined his comrade in the dirt. The third was nimble enough to move out of the way and forced Geralt to deflect the sword he sent arcing over the mare.

All this in the span of a second.

Then Geralt yanked his mount to a stop, front feet rearing as her back feet slid underneath her. Together, they rounded the other side of the wagon, running past the guards on that side, who were too wise to try to get in the way, and pulling up next to the remaining horse hauling the wagon. Geralt dismounted in a flurry and cut the straps binding the horse to the cart to quash any chance of escape. Geralt’s mare floundered a few steps forward before collapsing, utterly still save for her heaving sides.

Time slowed. The four remaining guards had gathered themselves, but they had yet to attack. The driver had already fled.

Then Roth’s outraged bellow struck them. “Don’t just stand there, you idiots, kill him!”

They wasted no time in complying. Adrenaline coursed through Geralt’s veins as he fended off four guards at once. They knew what they were doing.

But they were still no match for a witcher.

Geralt ducked a blow from his left, twirling and slicing through the man backhanded before he could recover. The fatal blow extended into a deflection to the right which sent the attacker sailing past Geralt, but a quick jab from another landed a hit on Geralt’s arm. The cut was long, but shallow. Geralt hopped backward just in time to avoid a killing stroke from above, stabbing the man through the chest under his arm in return.

The last two men put up more of a fight than their brethren. Between the two of them, they landed several blows to Geralt’s arms and legs. He was lucky they weren’t too severe. And that his armor had deflected those that sought to pierce his heart. It took every ounce of fortitude, but Geralt finally struck them down.

The scene was a massacre. The second one of the night. A dozen cuts and bruises marred Geralt’s limbs. He was limping slightly from a nasty cut through his hamstring and the stitches in his side had long since torn out, the small trail of blood lost among the collection.

He could hardly breathe through the pain and exhaustion, each breath like sand scraping down his throat, a fire burning in his lungs. But his mission was not yet finished.

“You.” Roth approached from the wagon, livid.

Geralt put on an air of serenity. Of assurance. He tried to hide the shaking in his arms. “I make good on my promises.” His tone grew deadly. “You threatened the wrong person. You won’t leave this place.”

Roth seethed, lip aquiver, so infuriated as to be incapable of forming a verbal response. He drew his sword instead.

“Just a word to the wise,” Geralt jibed, holding his sword at the ready, “if you’re going to leave someone for dead, cut off their head first.”

“I plan to,” Roth snarled in return, already swinging at Geralt.

The blow came faster than Geralt had expected, faster than he could compel his body to move. The clumsily parried blow cut through the air inches from Geralt’s face. Pressing his advantage, Roth closed in and Geralt had no choice but to back away, giving ground as Roth greedily snatched it up, avoiding death by a hair’s breadth.

Roth seemed pleased with himself at the course of the battle, a vicious light glowing in his eyes at the prospect of Geralt’s imminent demise. Geralt fought desperately just to stay on his feet. He had been right about Roth. The man was a better swordsman than he had let on at their first meeting. Perhaps not as good as Geralt, but with Geralt’s condition, Roth had the edge. And the man wasn’t opposed to using Geralt’s injuries against him either.

Roth had Geralt reeling backwards, barely able to keep up with the onslaught of blows. In one instance, when Geralt’s guard was momentarily down, Roth swung a swift kick at Geralt’s chest, where he knew it would pain him the most. A howl rent the night air as Geralt clutched at his chest. Bright, white light flashed before Geralt’s eyes, blinding him, sending him sprawling on the ground. He narrowly recovered in time to avoid Roth’s sword, slashing down into the mud after him. Geralt rolled away, blundering his way to his feet, forcing his arms up to the ready. Taking a stance to begin the battle anew.

He couldn’t win like this. Couldn’t win with strength and skill alone. Geralt had to play it smart.

He feigned a stumble, knowing Roth would capitalize on the opportunity. Roth didn’t disappoint. As soon as Roth took the bait, Geralt threw himself backwards in the opposite direction, landing behind Roth who desperately tried to recover. Geralt aimed for his head, but Roth was too quick. The move cost Roth a gash down his arm. Enraged, Roth swung wildly at Geralt. He dodged it easily.

That trick wouldn’t work again, Geralt knew. But the tide had turned.

They clashed for an eternity, trading blow for blow, stroke for stroke. Even in his depleted state, Geralt refused to accept defeat. He would not greet death until he knew his friends were safe.

Some unspoken agreement had them pull apart simultaneously, both staring intently at the other, gauging, analyzing, studying the other for any weakness. Any subtle shift in weight that would give away their next move.

A quiet calm had settled over Geralt. He suspected part of it was from the blood loss, his failing mind and body. The other part was borne of his bond. With Triss. With Ciri. With those that he loved and would give anything to protect. It gifted him the strength his body lacked.

In stark contrast was the utter wrath sputtering from Roth. He likely hadn’t met anyone he couldn’t bully or bribe. All had fallen before his lust for power. He stood on the summit of a mountain of conquered foes with no room for anyone beside him. Geralt’s opposition stood against everything Roth knew and believed in. Geralt’s nonchalance served only to infuriate Roth even more.

Both men stood transfixed, panting, bloodied. Both drew back their swords.

And lunged.

Roth exploded, incapable of checking his rage. “Why won’t you die!”

In his tranquility, the world sharpened to a crystal focus for Geralt. He knew what was going to happen. And accepted it.

Geralt’s sword skewered Roth through the chest, through his black and withered heart.

Fear chased surprise across Roth’s face. Then a glimmer of triumph before Roth slid to the earth, unmoving.

His death grip pulled his sword from Geralt’s chest.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Geralt wasted no time with a momentous battle-cry to herald his victory, no witty retort to shove Roth further into the grave. He couldn’t have spoken even if he wanted to. He had only moments.

The sword had pierced his lung.

Geralt dove for Roth, searching frantically for keys, fingers moving faster than his flustered brain could command. Breaths came in ever shallower gasps. There wasn’t enough air.

Cold metal met Geralt’s hand in the shape of a simple key. He grasped it like a piece of flotsam in open water and staggered his way over to the carriage, clutching the hole in his chest in a useless attempt to hold himself together.

Too slow. It was all happening too slowly. At a snail’s pace, the wagon drew near, Geralt’s feet seemingly striving against his own efforts. And then, try as he might, Geralt couldn’t draw breath. He only had whatever air was left in his system.

Geralt fumbled at the lock, finally fitting the key inside and turning it. The door swung wide.

There, bound and gagged, dimeritium shackles chained to the middle of the floor, was Triss. She stared wide-eyed at Geralt, but unsurprised at his appearance.

Geralt made to climb in, to unlock Triss, but his legs crumpled beneath him. He slapped the key onto the floor of the carriage, a bloody handprint outlining it on the wooden boards. As his world faded, he slid down the wagon and collapsed behind it.

The stars winked at him from high above, then blurred together with the trees and the wind and the sky until his sight failed him and he knew no more.

* * *

Triss had figured out what had happened long before Geralt’s face appeared at the door. She knew Geralt had come to rescue her, and marveled at the fact that he could even attempt the feat. More of Shani’s handiwork was no doubt to thank for that. But fear strangled her heart when she saw him fall. Saw the blood encasing his body, dribbling from his lips. She had to get to him. Now.

Using her foot, Triss scooted the key behind her back where she grabbed it and undid her shackles. She didn’t bother rubbing her aching wrists. Didn’t bother stretching her cramped muscles or favoring her beaten and bruised ribs. She bounded for Geralt, dropping to his side with spells already forming on her lips. But something was blocking her. She couldn’t summon her magic.

_Roth!_

His talisman! Triss quickly located Roth, stooping over his body and ripping the stone from around his neck. It went soaring into the woods.

Magic was dancing on Triss’ fingers by the time she scampered back to Geralt. It wasn’t good. Blood was bubbling from his lips, his chest heaving in a futile attempt to breathe. She could see from the placement of a stab wound that his lung had been punctured. Now was not the time for caution. Geralt would die if she didn’t heal him now. Magic was his only hope.

But it wouldn’t be easy.

Foremost, she had to reverse the damage. The lung had to be brought back to working order. Nerves, blood vessels, muscles, tissue all in their rightful place. With a flourish of her hands, the spell took hold, stitching together torn flesh.

It wasn’t working quickly enough.

Geralt’s eyes were rolling into his head, his struggles lessening with each passing second. More and more blood gurgled forth from his mouth and chest. Not to mention from the dozen lesser wounds that covered his body. Triss willed her focus solely to her spell, blotting out her surroundings, Geralt’s condition. One distraction and it would be over.

Magic poured from her into Geralt. She allowed it to overflow to his other wounds, let it take whatever it needed from her own reserves. The words flew seemingly of their own will from her mouth—a complex spell weaving its own tapestry. By the time it stitched the last thread, Triss was panting heavily, her magic drained.

Flawless skin shone through the slash in Geralt’s armor, his chest perfectly healed.

But motionless.

_No._

The spell had taken too long. It had restored him only after his heart had stopped beating.

“No, no, no, no, come on! Geralt!” She shook him by the shoulders. His head lolled, a small dribble of blood from his mouth the only surviving proof of his ruined lung.

She wasn’t going to let him die like this. Wasn’t going to let Roth reach out from his grave and drag Geralt down alongside him. She started beating her fist against Geralt’s chest.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

He juddered with every strike, but did not wake. Nevertheless, she kept at it, refusing to give up on him. Tears streamed unnoticed down her cheeks; each attempt to start Geralt’s heart steadily worked to stop her own.

This couldn’t be the end. Not like this.

_Please, not like this._

All-consuming despair was looming ever nearer. Then Geralt’s chest surged outward at long last, drawing in an eager breath, dispelling the shadow cast over Triss’ heart and filling it with overwhelming joy. His eyes flew wide, searching and questioning, urgently trying to fill in the blanks. They finally lit upon her face. A spark of recognition. His breathing eased as light imbued his eyes once more.

Triss let out the breath she didn’t realize she had been holding.

* * *

Geralt couldn’t remember anything after opening the door to the carriage, but he could piece together the facts well enough. From the dull ache in his chest to the absence of pain everywhere else, he knew that Triss had healed his injuries and then restarted his heart.

What luck in friends indeed.

He realized that she was waiting for him to show some sign of life, so, letting gratitude saturate his voice, he simply said, “Thank you.”

She heaved a sigh of relief, wiping her tears with a swipe of her hand. “I’m the one who should be thanking you. If you hadn’t come, I’d be secured in Novigrad, waiting to be burned at the stake.”

“You know I’d never let that happen.” He pushed himself to his feet, surprised at how easily he could do so. A lack of pain was a strange sensation to him considering the past week. Strange—but welcome.

Triss was slightly slower to rise. Bruised ribs, he realized as he pulled her up.

“Are you alright?”

She flashed him a smile. “I’ll be fine. Just a parting gift from Roth’s men.” Geralt flashed concern. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing I can’t handle. I’ve certainly endured far worse. Just a little sore is all.” She turned to the carnage around them. “We should get going though. Dawn will be arriving soon and someone is bound to come looking once Roth and his men fail to show up in Novigrad.”

“There’s just one more thing I have to do.” Geralt walked over to Roth and picked up his sword, giving it a twirl, enjoying the feel of the weight in his hand once more. A weight that, for the first time in a while, was steadying rather than burdensome.

Then he swiftly chopped off Roth’s head.

Triss gave him a look.

Geralt shrugged. “Can’t be too careful.”

At a snap of Triss’ fingers, Roth’s head and body were suddenly ablaze. “Indeed.”

**Epilogue**

Spring had landed at Kaer Morhen, bringing with it cloudless skies and chirruping birds that danced together in the pleasant breeze. The trees burst into every shade of green and flowers of every color and shade swept across the plains. Geralt and Ciri lounged on one of the upper balconies of the witcher fortress. Orange skies had faded to deep purple while they had chatted through the night and the gentlest pink had just given way to cerulean blue as the sun yawned and stretched over the horizon. They both hadn’t wanted the night to end.

It had been a few months since Ciri had reappeared from that tower, had defeated the White Frost. The following weeks they had spent avoiding Emperor Emhyr. Ciri had turned down his offer to become Empress, instead choosing to live out her life as a witcher.

She would be leaving today to tread her own path. Geralt knew she had to be on her own, for a while at least. She needed to find her own place in the world.

It didn’t make her parting any easier.

“How come I haven’t heard this story before now?” Ciri asked.

“Well, it’s been a little hectic what with saving the world, wars raging, and angry kings breathing down our necks. Plus, it’s not exactly something I like to remember.”

Ciri grew somber. “I can imagine. I’m sorry you went through so much just to find me.”

“Ciri, look at me.” Their eyes locked. “There is nothing to apologize for. And I didn’t tell you that story to make you feel bad.”

“So, then why tell it to me now?” Ciri stroked the leather sheath of her silver sword, Zirael. Geralt had given it to her mere hours before.

“Because you’re going to be leaving soon and I might not see you for a while. I’ve taught you everything I know. The rest will have to come from your own experiences, but that doesn’t mean you can’t learn from someone else’s. From mine.” A humorous twinkle lit Geralt’s eyes. “There was a moral to that story, you know.”

“Yes, yes.” Ciri half rolled her eyes, her mood brightening. “Never give up no matter how bad things are. Love and friendship are more powerful than hatred,” she rattled off.

“No, you clearly weren’t listening,” Geralt playfully chastised. He paused until Ciri indicated for him to continue. “Always cut off your enemy’s head.”

Ciri glared flatly, unable to hold back a chuckle.

* * *

 

**THE END**

Thanks so much for reading, everyone! Your feedback has been amazing throughout this process and I hope to see even more. I really do appreciate everyone who took the time to write a review and to read my stories. Whenever I’m doubting myself, that really is what keeps me going, so thank you!! And please do keep the reviews and comments coming! 


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